


Our Young Hearts Fade into the Flood

by annecoulmanross



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26199823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross
Summary: “That’s the ice that made me want to be a master – the way it kept moving us back,” Thomas had said, with that familiar smile on his face – the one that was full of memories.A missing scene from the second episode ofThe Terror.For theterror_exeprompt: “Funny to think of pack ice as poetry, isn’t it?”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Thomas Blanky/Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Blanky/Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross, Thomas Blanky/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 22
Kudos: 38
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	Our Young Hearts Fade into the Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Innumerable thanks to @[kaserl](https://kaserl.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this, and to @[thomasblanky](https://thomasblanky.tumblr.com) for the boundless Thomas Blanky knowledge!

“That’s the ice that made me want to be a master – the way it kept moving us back,” Thomas had said, with that familiar smile on his face – the one that was full of memories.

Tom Blanky had been so young when he’d first gone north, Francis Crozier knew – barely twenty. 

Francis could still picture Tom’s face as it had been when they’d met, several years later: smooth, clean-shaven, and bright with joy as he’d looked out over the endless frozen waves. That enthusiasm for the ice was something Tom had shared with James Clark Ross, back in ’27 – though James had pretended at greater experience than he’d had, crossed his arms over his chest and grinned proudly and told Tom, _It’s beautiful, isn’t it?_ as though he owned the place, as though he’d seen it a thousand times, seen the ice glitter like that in the morning sun every day of every month of every one of his preciously short twenty-seven years – which James absolutely hadn’t, though he’d done so more than Tom, and that was what had mattered. 

At twenty-nine (ancient), Francis had felt that he’d already seen enough of the ice to last him a long, long time, but he didn’t think he’d seen nearly enough of Thomas’s face (James’s face) – he’d smiled because they’d smiled, and looked out onto the pack ice menacing _Hecla,_ to see what they saw, even if the whiteness meant little to him beyond the science of the sea and the snow.

Now, in the grim present, with Thomas having gone back to his own warm cabin, there was little keeping Francis on deck, in the dark. The night had bathed the pack in a blue gloom, turning the ice into a solid surface stretching into the distance until it was swallowed by the darkness. It was eerie, Francis thought, a force to be reckoned with; not the source of wonder Thomas somehow saw. Francis shook his head. He himself was a long way from the young man he had been. 

Having finished his pipe, Francis took one final look out at the pack and turned to go back below decks himself. He’d never really understood whatever it was that Thomas (that James) had thought was beautiful about the ice, beyond the mechanics of how it acted. Francis had always gone north (gone south) for other reasons – adventure, knowledge, opportunity, friendship, loyalty, duty, love… 

Francis sighed. And now he’d dragged Thomas back into the great white nothing right along with him. 

Pulling open the door to his own cabin, Francis hoped he would eventually find some vestige of sleep, though he still didn’t feel at all tired. He hadn’t expected to find Thomas in his bunk – he’d thought Thomas had finally found it in himself to go close his eyes and drift off to sleep. 

But here was Thomas, blinking in the light from the doorway, stealing Francis’s blankets. 

“Tired yet?” Francis asked. 

Thomas just chuckled, and thumped the bed beside him. 

Francis raised a brow, skeptical. But the past several nights, trying to find warmth in this same bunk – cold, then, with no Thomas Blanky to warm it – chased him over to the bed, made him sit down on the open space where Thomas pulled back the coverlet. He fumbled out of his overcoat and leaned back cautiously against Thomas’s side, but Thomas pulled him more firmly into his arms, until Francis was lying half-over him, tucked up over Thomas’s hip. Francis almost worried he would crush Thomas, but Thomas buried his face in Francis’s chest and wrapped a strong arm around his shoulder and didn’t let go. 

Francis relaxed into the embrace. “This alright?” he mumbled, curling tighter into Thomas’s warmth. 

“Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t,” Thomas said, and hugged him closer. 

Francis felt his breathing evening out. It had been many long years since he’d shared a bunk on a ship – a captain didn’t do such things, after all, at least not often; there were many secrets that James Ross carried, Francis thought with a rueful smile. A stolen night on the _Cove,_ in between desperate days making their passage back and forth across Davis Strait, looking for whalers beset in the pack; a few evening hours on _Erebus_ when James dear had fallen asleep over his Antarctic charts and Francis had carried him to bed, only to be pulled down to join him. 

But years even before that, there had been a particular evening on _Hecla,_ in the early days of the trip in ’27, before the conditions had gotten bad….

They’d all three of them piled into Lt. James Ross’s small cabin, into a bed barely big enough to hold one young man, let alone three. James had pressed Francis into the corner against the ship’s side and sat on him. _Since you’re the tallest,_ James had said, laughing all the while, and Tom had joined in his infectious glee. 

_C’mon Tom,_ James’d said, _c’mere,_ and pulled Tom close, and kissed him – right there, while still sitting in Francis’s lap. It had done things to Francis, seeing them like that, and James had noticed, for he’d turned around and cupped Francis’s cheek, and said, _Feeling left out, old man?_ And then James’s lips (Tom’s lips) were on his and Francis’s senses had faded into a flood of heat and desire. 

“C’mere,” Thomas said, here, now; his hand on Francis’s cheek. When they kissed, it was warm and familiar, though the gentle scrape of Thomas’s beard on Francis’s jaw was new. A bit rough and full of comfort, Thomas’s lip under his teeth – 

It was over too fast, but Francis knew better than to push. Even out here beyond the end of the earth there were reasons this couldn’t happen. 

Still, Francis didn’t fight it when Thomas placed a hand on the back of his neck and brought their brows together. Or when Thomas pressed one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. Francis hadn’t realized that he’d needed to remember what this was like – to know that someone (Thomas, _Thomas_ ) cared for him. 

At last, Thomas settled them back onto the bed so that he was wrapped around Francis like a blanket, knees tucked behind knees, Thomas’s arm around Francis’s ribs. Francis could feel Thomas pressing his face into the back of his shoulder. There was a soft, contented sigh.

“Frank, d’you remember–?”

Francis huffed a soft laugh. “I was just thinking–”

“Always was so pretty, our Sir James was,” Thomas said. “Could get away with anything, and he knew it.” 

Francis smiled. “Aye.” He turned onto his back, to see Thomas’s face smiling down at him. “Did you… in ’29?” 

Thomas frowned. “Not with John Ross breathing down his neck, no.” 

“I’m sorry,” Francis said, and meant it. Meant more than what the words implied – after all, the march to Fury Beach had become one of his own nightmares, a transference from James dear at some point over the years. He’d often wondered how things would have gone differently if he’d been on the _Victory_ too, not stuck thousands of miles away, burning in the Mediterranean sun, waiting, agonized, for news of the two of them. All he’d wanted, then, was to hold James dear (Tom love) in his arms and know he hadn’t made a horrible mistake, letting them both leave. 

But Thomas scoffed, and picked up one of Francis’s hands, and placed it on his own cheek. Francis curled his fingers into Thomas’s beard before he could stop himself. “Nothing t’be sorry for,” Thomas said. “I had him there with me – that’s what mattered. We got through it.” 

“Still,” Francis said, but he relented when he spotted the crease of Thomas’s brow. “Well – we’ll get through it, you and me.” 

“Aye, we will,” Thomas said, and leaned down and kissed him once more until Francis’s heart felt full and heavy. 

Thomas settled down next to him, then, and pillowed his head on Francis’s shoulder. “Now, to sleep with you,” he said, the words lost in the fabric of Francis’s shirtsleeves. 

And, wondrously, Francis felt himself closing his eyes, and sleep came upon him as gently as snowmelt.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Historical notes:** As ever, my expert on all things Thomas Blanky is @[thomasblanky](https://thomasblanky.tumblr.com) and all mistakes are entirely my own! If you’d like more details on Blanky, I’d also recommend [both](https://nycroblog.com/2020/07/14/thomas-blanky-arctic-seafarer1/) [parts](https://nycroblog.com/2020/07/17/thomas-blanky-arctic-seafarer/) of Katherine Bullimore’s excellent article “Thomas Blanky of Whitby: Arctic Seafarer.”
> 
> Here’s a basic timeline of the polar expeditions that Thomas Blanky, Francis Crozier, and James Clark Ross served on together: 
> 
> 1821 – Francis Crozier & James Clark Ross on HMS _Fury_  
>  1824 – Francis Crozier on HMS _Hecla_ and James Clark Ross on HMS _Fury_  
>  1827 – Thomas Blanky & Francis Crozier & James Clark Ross on HMS _Hecla_  
>  1829 – Thomas Blanky & James Clark Ross on HMS _Victory_ (i.e. the John Ross Fury Beach trip)  
> 1835 – James Clark Ross & Francis Crozier on HMS _Cove_ (as Captain and First Lt. respectively)  
> 1839 – James Clark Ross on HMS _Erebus_ & Francis Crozier on HMS _Terror_ (both Captains)  
> 1845 – Thomas Blanky & Francis Crozier on HMS _Terror_ (i.e. their last, with Franklin)
> 
>  **Title notes:** The title comes from the song “Waves” Dean Lewis, which I pulled from this [spectacular playlist](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/622220257213513728/we-already-know-the-ending-a-playlist-by-kaserl) by @[kaserl](https://kaserl.tumblr.com) – but the reason I chose the lyric “Our Young Hearts Fade into the Flood” was because I was struck by its distinct similarity to a line in a poem written by a very young James Clark Ross: “Transfix’d with wonder on the frozen flood, / The blaze of grandeur fired my youthful blood.” You can read the rest of Ross’s poem [here](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/611590869225799680/indifferent-century-today-in-james-ross). 
> 
> Look, sometimes you just hear Ian Hart say, “Nah, it’s just that I know you,” in that _voice_ and you just start crying, you know?


End file.
